


honestly kind of pathetic

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Nathan is a mess, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8934631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: "I'm sick."





	

**Author's Note:**

> you can think of this as a sequel to the murdertooth one since i mention it briiieeefly but you dont have to

It began when his Dethphone rang. Pickles picked up as soon as he saw Nathan's face beside the caller ID. Immediately all he could hear was the sound of a very pained Nathan on the other line. Dear god, had something happened to him? Was he alright?

"Nate'n. Nate'n! Nate'n, you alright?!"

"Goddamnit, Pickles, come to the living room."

"You got it. Holy shit." He was hung up on, and quickly began getting his shit together. He hadn't taken first-aid classes in years and hardly considered himself qualified, but he knew when to get serious and do shit himself... Though, he did grab a bottle of vodka before leaving his room, and then dashed to their living room at the speed of a gazelle on angel dust. He found Nathan on the floor, curled up and clutching his gut.

"Fucking... Murderface!"

"Did 'e shoot you wit' his BB gun again?"

"No!"

"What's th' matter?"

"I'm..." He laid back, draping a hand over his forehead. "...sick." The sentence was punctuated by an acrid belch that the Dethklok front-man could clearly taste on his tongue afterwards. Pickles stared at him for a long, long time.

"Yanno, y'really had me scared."

"Tummy hurts." 

"Nate'n. I thought you were seriously injured, dood."

"Fuck's sake, Pickles, why're you so damn unsympathetic."

"I'm naht, I jest..." Pickles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can you eat food."

"Only soft shit and liquids."

"How soft."

"Like, really thick milkshake soft." He paused. "Or maybe just really melted ice cream. I don't know."

"Alright then... uh, last time we had a sick bandmate we jest kinda waited fer it to pass."

"Can't you get me some kind of medication?! It sounds like there is some kind of fuckin'... bullshit tsunami going on in my guts."

"I mean, painkillers didn't do shit fer Murderface, so..."

"Fuck!" Nathan propped himself up on his elbows, face covered in sweat. "God, I'm fucking lightheaded. I think I'm dying... Say, how cold is that bottle of vodka?"

"Oh, dis? I jest gaht it from my fridge."

"Give that to me."

Pickles shrugged, handing the bottle to Nathan. Much to his chagrin, Nathan proceeded to open it and pour the cold contents over his head, the sweat on his face washing away with it as he did. Soon enough the bottle was empty, and the vocalist was soaking wet from chest to head. "Oh god, that's so fucking good..."

"Why didn't ya just hold the cold bottle on yer forehead, ya dumb asshole? I was gonna drink dat!"

"Take some fucking pity, alright, I'm dying."

"Yer naht dyin'!"

"I feel like I'm dying."

"Nate'n..." Pickles groaned. "You want somethin', some kind'a massage, or..."

"Could you get me to a fucking bathroom." A pause. "In case I fucking puke again. I upchucked in our goddamn hot tub."

"Remind me to get that cleaned." Pickles pulled Nathan's arm over his shoulder and very slowly dragged him to a bathroom. (Nathan was, of course, unwilling to be very helpful in this endeavor.) Upon arrival, Nathan immediately flopped over in front of the bathtub and vomited harshly into the toilet bowl. His breath was labored, and his body shaking.

"I think it came outta my nose..." He coughed, spitting up another rotten-smelling geyser of bile. "Augh, my guts!"

"Did you eat somethin', Nate'n." Pickles got down next to him. "Yanno, even if y'can't eat solid food."

"...Chocolate chip cookies."

"Nate'n."

"I was hungry! Alright?! I'm sor..." He grimaced. "Ugh, nevermind."

"Did you eat anythin' else."

"...Cheesecake."

"And?"

"Skwisgaar's world famous prinsesstårta."

"Anything else?"

"Uugh..." He lurched over once more, heaving pastel goop into the porcelain bowl. "...A really big stack of pancakes."

"Please tell me dat's everythin'."

"A pizza."

"Nate'n, holy fucking shit." Pickles pressed a hand to his back, rubbing it in slow, circular motions. "No wonder you feel like garbage, yer eatin' all dis crap when you ain't even supposed to. Jeez. I can't be yer mahm all th' time, yanno."

"I was hungry!" Nathan actually whined, in his deep, gruff voice. "It fucking hurts, okay?! Show me some damn sympathy, asshole!" 

"I'm sure prinsesstårta tastes fine when y' put it in a blender."

"That's fucking stupid! You're stupid! You're--" Nathan was cut off by another volley of acidic spew ejecting itself from his throat. And then another, and another, until all that remained were dry heaves and the occasional bit of solid, half-digested pancake.

"C'mahn, lay back ya big baby." Nathan obliged, flopping back with his head on Pickles' knee. "Jest get some rest."

"A bathroom isn't really an ideal place to sleep."

"Well I can't carry you, and you look too damn tired to walk." Pickles quietly worked his fingers through Nathan's hair, occasionally brushing them past his cheeks and ears. An abnormally soothing sensation, something almost paternal about it, in fact. Nathan's eyes went half-lidded.

"How often do you need to do this..."

"Well, Toki ain't equipped to deal with Murderface's hangovers, I can tell ya dat much." He let out a breathy laugh. "Plus, when Charles gets too overworked, I'm th' only one willin' to give 'im a back massage. And when Skwisgaar gets really drunk, sometimes he lays his head on my shoulder and so I kinda play wit' 'is hair instinctively. And also--"

"Alright, I get it."

And thus, Pickles was trapped in that bathroom for the next few hours. (He wouldn't give up on an obligation to watch his own band's frontman.) Slowly, the room was filled with snores, as Nathan fell into the throes of slumber, mouth half-open and arms thrown to the side. Pickles, not wanting to catch whatever contagion was going around, pressed a small kiss to the side of Nathan's red, sweaty, vodka-tasting face.


End file.
